Random Victim

by Michael A. Black

  “With all due respect, Lieu—” Leal started to say. But Brice cut him off.

  “Can it, Leal. I’m a lot more familiar with this case than any of you. I worked it before, you know.”

  Yeah, Leal thought. And you did real good, too, didn’t you?

  “So,” Brice said, blowing out some more smoke, then coughing again. “I want you guys to concentrate on checking down every lead in two main areas. Random victim carjackings and chop shops. We find the car, if it still exists, then we got a good lead on who killed her.”

  Leal started to speak, but stopped as Ryan said, “You know, boss, I been thinking along those lines, too.” Leal snorted and Brice stared at him sharply.

  “You got a problem with that, Sergeant?” Brice said.

  “Well, I gotta tell you, Lieu, I think it’s gonna be like looking for a needle in a haystack. How many months has it been and the car still hasn’t shown up? And I don’t feel comfortable zeroing in on any one theory until we’ve ruled the others out.”

  Brice rolled his tongue over his teeth before he spoke. “Well, I’m really not interested very much in your ‘comfort,’ Leal. First of all,” he held up the index finger of his non-cigar hand. “I been working this case a helluva lot longer than you, which means I’ve had plenty of time to sort out all the different theories and directions. And two,” he held up another finger, “I am in charge of this investigation.”

  “I realize that, but—” Leal tried to say.

  “No buts,” Brice said, cutting him off again and waving his palm back and forth. Then he pointed to Ryan, “Check out the chop shops and random victims file. Trace down every lead. Look for similar MOs. Shit, maybe we even arrested some punk who knows something. Get ’em to flip. That’s the way this thing’s gonna be solved. Good old-fashioned police work.” His eyes shot toward Leal momentarily. “And, Ryan, if you’re not capable of leading and directing this group, I’ll find someone else who is. Understood?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Ryan said. His cigarette smoldered untouched between his fingers.

  “Okay,” Brice said, taking a careful draw on his cigar.

  “Give me a written report summarizing everything you’ve done so far. And I want it typed and on my desk by the end of business today. I’ll expect one every three days. If things don’t improve, I can increase that to every day.”

  Ryan stood and nodded. “Gotcha, boss.” He turned and motioned toward the door, taking one more drag on his cigarette before exiting the office. He blew out the smoke, causing Hart to wave it away as they emerged in the secretary’s office area. Ryan grinned and handed the butt to the secretary. “Take care of this for me, will ya, babe?” Then, he turned to Leal as they were out of earshot. “Jesus, Frank, could you have done any more to piss him off?”

  “He’s an asshole,” Leal said. “Always has been, and always will be.”

  “Yeah, but he’s also the head asshole,” Ryan said. “Now we got to go curl up and kiss his ass.”

  “Maybe you do,” Leal said.

  Ryan gave Leal an imploring look. “Frank, he’s got the authority to replace any of us if he wants.”

  “Bullshit, he’s not going to replace anybody. He’d look like too much of an idiot after that big press conference. He was just blowing smoke out his ass.”

  Ryan sighed. “Well, if he was, I don’t want to be standing behind him.” He grinned, as if pleased with his own wit. “But right now we got bigger problems. Getting this summary to him. Hart, can you type?”

  “Sure,” she said. “As long as it’s in a nonsmoking area.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Machines and Machinations

  “Hi, I’m not in at the moment, but if you leave a message after the beep, I’ll get back to you.”

  Leal exhaled loudly through his nostrils and waited for the series of electronic manipulations to give the desired signal. He hated talking to these damn machines, but after finally getting up the nerve to talk to her he didn’t want to just hang up. Besides, if he did, and she had caller ID, she might trace the number, thinking it was a pervert or something.

  “Ah, Sharon, this is Frank Leal,” he said haltingly. “I wanted to give you a call to see if you were busy. I’ll make it another time.”

  He left his departmental voice mail number and flipped the cellular closed, wondering if he should have left his home number, or at least his beeper. Nah, I got a long time to be disappointed, he thought. No sense waiting for a call that probably won’t ever come.

  It was quarter after three, and he was practically alone in the cafeteria section, which was why he’d chosen it. Some deputies and a few maintenance people sat at the far end in the smoking section. Leal stepped over to the vending machines and dropped some change into one of them. A diet Pepsi for him, and a natural juice for Hart. As he gripped the can and the bottle and headed back to the office, he saw her standing by the wall, stretching.

  “How’s the typing coming?” he asked, setting the juice down on the desk.

  “Just finished, Sarge,” she said, completing her stretch and now flexing her fingers. Ryan and Smith had hung around for a little while, then silently departed, leaving the two of them to complete the investigation summary thus far. Hart hadn’t seemed to mind that the typing duties fell to her, and she worked at incredible speed. Like a human typing machine, Leal thought. And since they’d ridden to work together that day, he was obligated to stay until the report was done. Not that he would have considered leaving with the others. She was, after all, his partner, for better or for worse.

  “Here’s your juice,” he said, tapping the cap. “Let’s go make some copies and get it to Brice so we can split.”

  Hart moved forward and twisted open the juice and drank some.

  “He’s gone for the day,” she said. “I just called up there to tell him it was done. He left shortly after the meeting.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Leal said. He regretted saying it a moment later, not wanting to criticize a higher-ranking officer in front of her. “We’re going nowhere fast on this one.”

  “You think we’re on the wrong track, huh?” she said, taking another sip of juice.

  Why can’t women ever drink things down in one or two gulps? He wondered. He took in a deep breath, then looked at her. He could say that he thought Brice and Ryan epitomized the term, “political hacks.” Coppers who got their rank and appointments because of who they were and who they knew, not what they did. But still, he didn’t really know her that well, and she was something of a mystery herself. “Let’s just say that I don’t have a lot of regard for the approach of our esteemed lieutenant.”

  “I get the feeling that there’s history between you two. Am I right?”

  Leal smirked. “We went a few rounds once,” he said. “Literally. Back when we both worked at the jail. I don’t think Brice has ever forgotten it.”

  Hart’s eyebrows rose. “Wow, who won?”

  Leal laughed. “It was a draw, I guess.” He didn’t want the word circulating again that he’d kicked Brice’s ass. Not while he was working under him in this new assignment. “Come on, let’s make those copies and get out of here.”

  They walked together toward the copying machine, which was on the way to Brice’s office. The building was beginning to empty out, as the overstaffed day shift was slowly being replaced by those working afternoons.

  “So, Olivia, what you got planned for tonight?”

  She looked at him briefly, as if deciding what to say.

  “Nothing much,” she said slowly. “I’ve got to hit the gym. Tonight’s my back and legs routine. Why?”

  “I was just going to offer to buy you something to eat. Where do you work out?”

  “The Body Center in Alsip. I gave you that card, remember?”

  “Oh yeah,” Leal said, remembering it now. “How long does it normally take?”

  “Maybe an hour and a half,” she said slowly.

  He glanced at his watch. />
  “So if we leave right now, and traffic isn’t too bad, you could be through with your workout by?”

  “Maybe six thirty or seven, if I wasn’t rushing it. Why all the questions? You thinking of joining me?”

  “Actually, I was wondering if you were up to a littleovertime?”

  “Overtime?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s time to meet Mr. Walker face-to-face.”

  “But isn’t that kind of going against what the lieutenant told us today?”

  They stopped at the room with the copier. The door was open, but the place was empty.

  “Yeah,” Leal said. “But we’re never gonna get anywhere with this case following Brice and Ryan’s slow, careful, step-by-step directions. It’s time for some initiative.”

  “But going over to his house at night? Wouldn’t it be better to just interview him at his office tomorrow?”

  Leal shook his head. “I’d rather see him in his natural habitat. Catch him off guard a little. He’ll have too many defensive barriers set up at his office.” He paused and considered what he was suggesting to her. He would be going to interview Martin Walker regardless, and she was his partner. But he knew that they could be risking Brice’s wrath if he ever found out. But how the hell would that happen, anyway? Unless Walker complained, and if he did, that would tell them something, too. “So you up for it, partner? Or would you rather sit this one out?”

  She seemed to consider his question for a couple of beats, looking down at the copies popping out of the machine. When she looked up, she smiled.

  “Okay, I’m in,” she said. “I’ll do a light workout. You going to join me at the gym, or what?”

  “I might,” Leal said. “They got any punching bags there? A place to skip rope?”

  “Sure.”

  Leal nodded approvingly, thinking how nice it might just be to do some boxing work again, imagining Brice’s face on the front of the bag.

  Leal pounded out a rhythm on the speed bag to warm up. He had been less than significantly impressed with the gym, although the proprietor had seemed nice enough. Hart had introduced Leal proudly as her new “partner.” Rory Chalma had eyed him sharply as she’d said that, before extending an overdeveloped arm across the wooden counter and saying almost too gaily, “Mi casa es su casa.”

  Leal didn’t know if the man was trying to impress him or what, but his pronunciation was totally anglo. Chalma looked to be about thirty-five, with a sparse crop of curly blond hair and a massive neck that appeared wider than his head. He had generously refused Leal’s offer to pay for the workout.

  “Any partner of Ollie’s gets the first one on the house,” he’d said. “We’ll talk later if you want to sign up.”

  There was something different about the guy, but Leal didn’t know what. Maybe he was a boyfriend of Hart’s or something. Her name certainly was prominently displayed in the front window with a huge sign:

  OLIVIA HART, MID-WESTERN FEMALE BODYBUILDING CHAMP TRAINS HERE

  And numerous framed pictures of Hart doing various muscle poses in a small black bikini adorned the walls.

  Leal noticed Chalma eyeing them as they walked toward the locker rooms. A few of the obviously hard-core lifters whistled and yelled, “Hey, Ollie” from their respective workout stations.

  “You seem to be quite the celebrity here,” Leal said.

  “Just lucked out and won one of the top amateur contests, that’s all,” Hart said. “Small potatoes, really, but it qualifies me to compete in the Olympia this November.”

  Leal didn’t know what the Olympia was, but didn’t want to say so. An angular-looking woman in street clothes stepped out of the door marked Women and nodded to Hart.

  “Hi, Ollie. I didn’t know you were coming early tonight or I would have waited.” Her voice was almost as low as Leal’s.

  “I didn’t know, either,” Hart said. “Oh, Marsha, this is Sergeant Frank Leal, my partner.”

  “Hi, Frank,” the other woman said. “New member?”

  “I don’t know, maybe,” Leal said.

  “Hope so,” Marsha said, giving him an obvious once-over. “See you two around sometime.”

  As she left, Leal thought that everyone in here seemed to be a weirdo. He turned to Hart.

  “Ollie? Is that what people call you?”

  She smiled and bit her lip slightly. “Yeah, it comes from growing up in a house with two brothers. My sister is the oldest, and I was always sort of a tomboy. Olivia never seemed to fit, so everybody started calling me Ollie.”

  “Okay, Ollie. See you on the floor,” Leal said.

  And he did sneak a few surreptitious glances at her between bag sessions. It was hard not to. She looked striking in a black nylon workout outfit that left her muscular shoulders and legs bare. Chalma was spotting her as she squatted down with an Olympic-sized barbell on her back. The bar was fitted with double forty-five-pound plates on each end, and Hart’s thighs bulged in exquisite bas-relief with each repetition, showing more muscular definition than an anatomy book. But each movement, Leal noted, was accomplished with an underlying feminine grace. Fluid and lissome, like a female gymnast, yet, at the same time, undeniably powerful.

  If she could develop the same confidence and self-assurance she shows around here, Leal thought, she could be a dynamite copper. He glanced at his watch and decided to eke out another round on the heavy bag. Maybe this place ain’t such a dump after all, he thought. I could do worse for a regular workout place. And I could do a lot worse for a partner, too.

  They arrived at Walker’s house at seven thirty-five after a winding trip through the exclusive section of unincorporated Palos Park known as the Wooded Dells. Set just off the main highway, the area had obviously been tailored to maintain a bucolic appeal with lots of huge trees, curving roads, and picturesquely placed ponds. It was also devoid of street signs and lights, but the homes were all well lit by variously stationed floodlights to show off the perfectly sculpted hedges and well-manicured lawns. Every house seemed to have at least a three-car garage.

  Leal drove slowly past the house, giving it a once-over.

  “Isn’t that it?” Hart asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “But I just wanted to get a feel for things first. See what else is around, how close the neighbors are.”

  The houses were set far enough apart so as not to be within easy earshot of one another. There were no alleys, and each home had long, receding driveways that dropped back toward dark unknowns. A thick six-foot hedge separated Walker’s residence from his neighbor to the right, and on the left a large undeveloped patch of woods extended about a hundred yards beyond the house, all the way to the adjacent roadway.

  “Maybe somebody’ll call the cops about a cruising ten thirty-seven,” Hart joked.

  “That’d tell us something, too,” Leal said. “But I doubt it. If they would have been worried about security, they would have spent some money on street lights.”

  “And signs,” she added.

  Leal thought he detected something in her voice. A nervousness, perhaps? Maybe she was getting cold feet joining him on this violation of the Brice plan. After making a U-turn and following the road back to Walker’s, Leal turned into the driveway. The headlights shone on a declining slope that descended to a lower level.

  Probably the attached garage down there, he thought. As he shut off the car and grabbed the handle, he heard Hart say his name quickly. He glanced over at her.

  “I ’m…not sure what to do here,” she said haltingly.

  Leal let go of the door handle. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about me.” Her voice full of pauses and breaths. “But I haven’t really got a lot of experience doing this sort of thing.”

  He sighed quietly and grinned.

  “Ollie, it’s just like anything else. You’ve got to jump in and start paddling. You learn by doing. Just follow my lead. Let me ask the questions. See what you observe. You’ll do fine.
”

  Hart’s lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Okay,” she said, exhaling. “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s the spirit. Let’s do it to it.” Leal tried to smile reassuringly. It’s the only way she’ll learn anything, he thought. I just hope what she learns isn’t how to get yourself in trouble with your boss.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  First Impressions

  The house was a two-level brick with a descending rear portion. The two large windows in the front both had heavy drapes securely closed, although lights appeared to be on inside. Leal found the doorbell next to the aluminum screen door. The interior door was solid-looking mahogany. He leaned on the button once, waited about five seconds, then hit it a couple more times. They heard chimes sounding wildly on the inside.

  “That ought to get his attention,” Leal said.

  “To say the least,” Hart said. He could tell she was still nervous.

  Moments later the sound of movement came from the other side of the door. The ornate light above them flared to life, and a speaker below the doorbell asked, “Who is it?”

  “Police,” Leal said, holding up his badge case to the peephole. “We’d like to speak to you, Mr. Walker.”

  “What about?” the speaker asked.

  Leal shot a quick glance at Hart, then said, “Your wife’s death, sir. We’ve recently been assigned to the case.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I see,” the voice finally said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  The “moment” stretched to a good three or four minutes. Leal rang the bell again in impatience.

  The door flew open and a balding, overweight man with wire-rimmed glasses stood glaring at them through the screen door. The petulance was obvious in his voice as he said, “You didn’t have to ring the bell again. I was on my way.”

  Leal smiled. “Sorry, I thought you forgot about us.”

  Martin Walker sniffed and asked to see their identification again. He took a particularly long look at each, matching their faces to the photos. Leal placed him at around fifty, but knew from the case file that he was actually thirty-seven. This dude ain’t into clean living, he thought. Walker’s hair was light brown, and mostly gone in front, except for a peninsula-like section combed back from the center of his forehead. He had on a light blue bathrobe, striped pants, and house slippers. Leal realized that Walker was wearing pajamas. His skin had a loose, doughy look to it and his fingers toyed with the ends of the robe’s sash. He sniffed again and asked, “I was in the bath. Now, what can I do for you?”